Rangatira

  Enough of what might have been said. At some point in February, when the days were still short and melting snow was turning to gravy in the streets, Mr Sneyd Kynnersley summoned us all to his great library once again. Jenkins said very little in this meeting, though his face was defiant.

  The magistrate had papers for us to sign. This, he said, would represent our separation from Jenkins. The papers we signed in Auckland and in London would be cancelled. If we signed, we would no longer be bound to Jenkins, and could leave England at any time. Jenkins would no longer be bound to us, and was no longer obliged to pay us a weekly sum, or any other amount of money. Miss Weale would take care of us, and arrange for us to travel home on the Flying Foam in early April. If we chose not to sign, Jenkins would still be responsible for our lodgings and so on, and we would sail home with him in June, in the passage arranged by his friend Mr Riley.

  ‘Kihirini has already signed,’ Mr Maunsell told us. He’d taken the papers to Kihirini’s hospital bed in London. ‘He is very eager to return home, before it’s too late.’

  I thought of the boy Wiremu Repa. It was too late for him, and I didn’t have much hope for Kihirini.

  ‘I will sign,’ Wharepapa announced, and Reihana followed. I signed, and so did Hirini and Tere Pakia. Horomona Te Atua hesitated before he signed, and said he was thinking of his brother, the missing Wiremu Pou, and wondering if it was wrong to abandon him here. He had not seen him at all for several months, because the Maori Warrior Chiefs were now touring the cities of the north.

  ‘I will find your brother,’ Miss Weale promised him. She said she would see Wiremu Pou and persuade him to follow us home, and that she would not rest until every member of that Maori Warrior Chiefs troupe had renounced their debauched life on the stage and returned to a Christian life in New Zealand. I believed she would succeed. All those strong warriors would be powerless in the face of Miss Weale.

  ‘I will not sign!’ Ngahuia declared. She was still furious with Jenkins for calling her a vixen. ‘I will sue this one here and his friends for their broken promises. They owe us money. We have lived on nothing, nothing but charity, when we were told we would receive one pound a week. Haumu will not sign either.’

  Poor Haumu shook her head, glancing all the while at Ngahuia to make sure she was doing the right thing. But when Mr Sneyd Kynnersley talked in a stern voice, and Mr Maunsell explained once again that there was absolutely no money in the company coffers, and nothing to be gained from a legal suit, both women signed. Ngahuia made as much fuss as she could, breaking the nib of the pen and throwing it down onto the desk.

  ‘I don’t care for all this talk of money or no money,’ Hapimana said, suddenly haughty. He and Takarei were sitting a little apart from the rest of us, muttering to each other all the while. ‘I will not sign. I will stay with Jenkins, as we agreed, and return with him in June.’

  Takarei said he would stay as well. This would have been a moment of triumph for Jenkins, I think, if Mr Lightband had not immediately announced that he himself was planning to return with us on the Flying Foam, for Miss Weale had been very kind and offered to arrange his passage as well.

  So Hapimana and Takarei alone would stay, though we all felt they should have come home with us. That evening we tried to say this to them – Wharepapa tried, and I tried – but they were unmoved. Sailing home at once with Mr Lightband was fine for the Nga Puhi, they said, but they were not in such a hurry to return home.

  I wasn’t surprised by Hapimana’s decision. He and Takarei were from other places, other peoples, and they were outsiders in our group. Jenkins had sometimes taken them places without us, as though he were eager to secure their loyalty. Perhaps this was why he took Hapimana away at Christmas, when the rest of us were left in our lodgings. At the time we thought that Jenkins wanted to keep an eye on him, because Hapimana could not be trusted. Now I wondered if there was another motive in his mind.

  All who signed now moved into rooms at the Winson Green Road Girls’ Home. Our landlady, Mrs Johnson, was very sad to see us go.

  ‘I’ll be there at your farewell meeting, that I will,’ she told us, brushing at our jackets as we stood about in the passageway, waiting for the carriage taking us to Winson Green Road. Mr Maunsell was there to interpret, so she took the opportunity to say many other things to us, about what fine and decent gentlemen we were, and not savages at all, whatever people said, and much more accomplished at reading and writing than half the folk of Birmingham. We had nothing much left to give her as a parting gift, but Wharepapa had a bone earring he presented, and I gave her my English copy of the Book of Common Prayer.

  ‘Very genteel of you, to be sure!’ she exclaimed, sniffing back tears. Mr Maunsell spent half the carriage ride to Miss Weale’s house trying to fix exactly on the meaning of the word ‘genteel’, for we were all quite taken with it.

  The short weeks left to us were quiet, if living in a house full of Maori and their interpreters, not to mention thirty girls and their teachers and many servants, can be considered quiet. We did not see Jenkins at all in this time, but we heard his name often enough. Miss Weale was outraged by his demands, for he was asking her to pay for our stay at the Strangers’ Home in London the previous year. I’m afraid he was not the only person asking her for money, for Hirini Pakia was constantly pleading for an allowance. Even Tere Pakia had the grace to be embarrassed by this.

  We Maori seemed intent on disgracing ourselves in every possible way. As well as Hirini and his pleas for money, there was Wharepapa and his personal business. He had been forced to tell Miss Weale about his marriage in the manner of lions and bears, because Miss Elizabeth Reid was threatening to arrive on the doorstep with a sad face and a swollen belly. It was a risk to tell Miss Weale, because she had seen off Jenkins, and was unlikely to be afraid in any way of Wharepapa. He was very worried that she might decide that he was sinful and no longer worthy of a cabin on the Flying Foam, and then what would he do? Seek out Hapimana and Takarei in their lodgings, and plead for Jenkins’ forgiveness? Fortunately, Miss Weale was too great a Christian to throw him out into the streets, though she twisted her mouth in displeasure whenever Wharepapa’s ‘situation’, as she called it, was mentioned, and on more than one day Wharepapa was obliged to put on a great show of wailing with contrition.

  Our problems were our own business, until we heard from Mr Maunsell that Hapimana had disgraced himself once again, just as he had in Bristol. This time he was to stand in front of a judge in the Birmingham court, charged with behaving in a drunk and disorderly fashion.

  ‘So much for the care of Jenkins,’ said Miss Weale, and she looked pleased. When she had left the room to give orders to her housekeeper, we asked Mr Maunsell if Hapimana might be sent to prison. This was unlikely, he said, but Mr Lightband would have to find some way to pay his fine. Hapimana and Takarei still had their contracts, and the company had to meet all their expenses. But now Mr Jenkins had little hope of the Colonial Office lending him their support. Hapimana’s conduct reflected poorly on Jenkins, he said. It suggested that he was not responsible enough to take charge of us, and that he lacked judgement. These were the things of which Mr Ridgway had accused him, and perhaps now the Duke of Newcastle agreed.

  It seemed wrong to blame Jenkins for the behaviour of Hapimana, who was no doubt as foolish and reckless in New Zealand as he was in England. We are not different people in a different country, any more than I am one person in Tutukaka and another in Auckland. Hirini Pakia would be trouble everywhere. Reihana would be a bore. Wharepapa would be Wharepapa.

  Yet in some way what his enemies said of him was right. Jenkins lacked judgement. If I doubted this for a moment, then I would have known it as a certainty at our farewell meeting in March, at the Birmingham Town Hall. This was to be our last great triumph in England, a chance for people to hear us one last time and to present us with gifts to take back to New Zealand with us.

  And such gifts! Many kind people and many companies in the c
ity had piled a stand beneath the orchestra with all manner of things for us. Before the event began, we stood about in a room behind the stage, and Mr Maunsell ventured out to look. There were tools of every kind, he said, and nails, and ploughs, even engines of various sizes. There were toys, dolls, and writing slates, and cutlery, and many coffee and teapots. He’d seen beautifully wrought workboxes, and a heap of glass beads, and a travelling rug for each of us. It was all very respectable, and showed how well we were thought of in England, and in Birmingham in particular. When we returned home with these gifts, our people would be very impressed with the bounty of England, and everything could be put to good use at once.

  The Town Hall itself was packed. People were seated upstairs and down, Mr Maunsell said, with flags and banners hanging from the railings as though the Queen herself were coming. We could hear the strains of a quadrille band, and the hum of many voices. The dignitaries were drinking tea, Mr Maunsell said, and examining the array of gifts. The best people in Birmingham were here. Everyone wanted to say goodbye to us.

  When we walked onto the platform, in the shadow of the great organ, applause thundered through the building, filling it the way a choir’s song fills a cathedral. Before me was a swarm of faces, and I felt both relief and regret that this was to be the final public event of our visit. We had spoken in front of so many audiences in this country, but tonight it was all at an end. I planned to repeat my message of Christian love, to thank them for the kindness they had shown us, and to say that we were all the same, Maori and Pakeha, united by God’s love.

  The platform was crowded with chairs, and other people were joining us there, climbing up the steps on the other side. Many were ministers, some of whom I recognised from one meeting or another. Mr Sneyd Kynnersley was there, of course, and a number of other gentlemen who I presumed were members of his committee. Then I saw Jenkins take a seat on the far side of the platform, followed at some distance by Hapimana and Takarei, who did not look at the rest of us or acknowledge us in any way.

  Jenkins! Truly we had not expected to see him here. Miss Weale said he would not dare show his face, and Wharepapa had said that there was no reason for him to be present. The people of Birmingham were bidding us farewell and giving us gifts. Jenkins was no longer anything to do with us. We had signed Mr Sneyd Kynnersley’s papers, and the separation was complete. He no longer spoke for us. Our fates were no longer bound together.

  Yet there he was, sitting in a chair between two ministers, with Mr Lloyd shuffling into place behind him. Mr Lightband was there too, clearly unsure of where to sit, and drifting towards the back of the platform. All in our party, including Miss Weale and Mr Maunsell, sat on the opposite side of the stage from Jenkins.

  ‘What is that man doing here?’ Miss Weale asked whoever would listen, and this thought was on my mind as well. Why was he here, sitting at the front of the platform, for all to see? If he must be here, why could he not sit with Mr Lightband at the back, to watch the proceedings without making something important of himself? He could not learn new tricks, it seemed. He must return to his old tricks all the time.

  The man who was the new Mayor stood up to call everyone to order, which was no small feat. There were many rumblings and some laughter from the audience, for they were all in high spirits. We, too, had been in high spirits just moments before, but now there was uneasiness on our side of the platform.

  ‘What good can come of this?’ I whispered to Wharepapa. ‘Surely he will not try to speak, will he?’

  ‘If he does, we will shout him down.’

  I had no appetite for shouting, and hoped there would be no call for it that evening.

  The Mayor talked for some time, with Mr Maunsell translating for us on the platform. He was delighted, he said, to see so many people there to wish us well. He hoped that presently, when we returned to New Zealand, we would have a better impression of England than we ever had before. He said much else, but it was all along the same lines as these.

  The next speaker was Reverend Winters, who we had met several times. He was eager to tell everyone that this meeting had very happy circumstances. Not only was it the first anniversary of the marriage of the Prince and Princess of Wales, it was also the baptismal day of the infant Prince. This baby, we had heard, was named Albert Victor, just like Hare Pomare’s baby.

  ‘Also, the most delightful news of all,’ said the Mayor, and I wondered what he would say. That Wharepapa and an English girl had married in the manner of lions and bears? ‘This very day, we received the news of a cessation of hostilities in New Zealand.’

  Everyone in the hall was very happy about this, cheering and stamping their feet, as though they themselves had been threatened by the Waikato. We were too distracted to join their applause, because Jenkins was walking to the middle of the stage, clearly preparing to speak. Even when we saw him take his seat near us, we didn’t expect him to talk. The pieces of paper we had signed with him were torn up, and new pieces of paper signed. We were no longer bound to him, or he to us. Yet there he was, once again in the centre of things, addressing the people of England.

  As Jenkins spoke, Mr Maunsell translated for all of us. He was much better at this job than Wharepapa. Maunsell knew all the words in English and Maori, so, for the first time since we arrived in England, we were all able to hear and understand everything that Jenkins was saying.

  I think it would have been better for everyone if we had not understood.

  As I remember it, Jenkins made a few remarks about how well we had been treated by the people of England on this trip, and how great an opportunity it was for the Maori in our party, and so on. This was not so terrible, I suppose, but it annoyed Wharepapa.

  ‘Why is he thanking the people of England?’ he asked Maunsell. ‘Have we not mouths to speak for ourselves?’

  If Jenkins had stopped talking then, and returned to his seat, and if Wharepapa had been permitted to stand and give one of his orations on victory in the Waikato, and the greatness of the English, and the wickedness of the Maori before the missionaries took charge of us, then perhaps the night would have been unremarkable, apart from the vast quantity of gifts which would have to be transported down to Gravesend.

  But Jenkins had much, much more to say. Most of it was about money. Many unfair accusations had been made, he said. He and his associates had raised £1600 in New Zealand, their own money, in order to give us this wonderful opportunity. He also spoke of the contracts we signed back in Auckland, which made him responsible for our maintenance while we were in England, and meant that we were bound by honour to follow his directions. I glanced over at Hapimana and Takarei at this point, and noted that they were nodding at everything he said, though I doubted they could hear Mr Maunsell’s translation as we could.

  The longer Jenkins spoke, the more agitated some on our side of the platform grew, with Miss Weale the most agitated of all. His plans for our trip to England, he said, were approved by Governor Grey, by the Duke of Newcastle, and by the Prince of Wales. When the group of important men led by the Earl of Shaftesbury wanted to send us home, we refused to go. We all wanted to do our duty, as promised. So off we went with him to Bristol, where at last he could hold public meetings and charge admission, without interference, so the company could begin to recover their money.

  ‘But in Birmingham,’ Jenkins said, ‘I found we could no longer meet our expenses in this way. Certain people had spoken against me, without any justification.’

  ‘For shame!’ cried Miss Weale. ‘He has a face of brass!’

  She said so many other things, in so loud a voice, that some of the gentlemen on the stage turned to frown at her.

  ‘Enemies of this endeavour,’ said Jenkins, ‘had sent letters to men of importance here in Birmingham, and interfered with the great mission of this visit.’

  I only knew a little of these accusations and enemies of which Jenkins was always speaking. With everything he said, it was difficult to know what was certain and wh
at was one of his loose truths. He spoke of us next, and this was what I mean by a loose truth, a part of a story. Many of us had grown tired of this life in England, he said, and were taking up the offer of a benevolent lady to return home at once. For himself, he would stay on with some of the rangatira, the ones happy to abide by the original agreement and eager to learn more of England. With their help, he said, he and his associates would try to make back some of their lost money.

  After Jenkins sat down, Mr Sneyd Kynnersley stood to speak, with Mr Maunsell again telling us every word. He would not have chosen to speak of this matter, the magistrate said, but as Mr Jenkins had raised the subject, he must.

  I can’t remember all that he said now. The words, English and Maori, were swimming in my ears, and it was hard to hear over Reihana’s exclamations about Jenkins and his presumption. I think Mr Sneyd Kynnersley talked of the inclement weather in Birmingham, and of our lives that were one day too dreary and the next too exciting, and that this was why so many of us were anxious to return home.

  He sat down, but still it was not our turn to speak. The Mayor stood again, to make a fine speech about all the gifts given to us by the great merchants and manufacturers of Birmingham. The committee men and ministers on the stage sat smiling, and the audience applauded, this almost drowning out the sound of Takarei’s hacking cough. On the other side of the stage, we were talking openly among ourselves now. Would we not get a chance to say anything? Was Jenkins, with whom our connections were severed, be the only voice heard?

  Before anything was agreed, Reihana stood up, his face grim.

  ‘I will address the crowd,’ he told us, waving away Wharepapa’s objections. Wharepapa knew, as I did, that Reihana’s words would be angry, and that Mr Maunsell would translate every one of them.

  ‘Friends, hear what I have to say,’ he shouted, striding to the front of the stage. Young Mr Maunsell had to scramble to his feet to stand beside Reihana, and the Mayor backed away in some confusion, stumbling into his own chair. The audience, still smiling and clapping at this point, soon fell silent. ‘This is what I have to say to you. I did not at all desire Mr Jenkins to speak tonight. Not ever do I wish Jenkins to speak. He stands here and claims to speak for us all, when Wharepapa and I have no faith in Jenkins.’